


Holmgang

by Luke_Danger



Category: For Honor (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Duelling, Gen, Vikings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 13:04:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16063739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luke_Danger/pseuds/Luke_Danger
Summary: After his meeting with Cross and Ayu, Stigandr knew that convincing the other clans to accept peace was a difficult task. But when the clans threaten to divide over the matter, he finds himself left with one resort to try and achieve both peace and unity in Valkenheim: a holmgang with none other than the Raider himself.





	1. Impasse

“Now do you understand how we have been the pawns of the monster we failed to destroy?”

The assembled clan leaders remained silent as the leader of the Warborn Clans finished relaying the stories from two unlikely sources. The man who spoke had grown older since he had first taken up the reins, but his garb was much the same as it was back then. The head of a polar bear cleaned out to decorate his spectacled nasal helm, decorated now with gold rather than the brass it used to be. And for good measure, draped over his left shoulder was what remained of that bear’s pelt, hacked away over the years. And the man himself wore his braided dark brown beard with teal bands to hold it together, various leatherworks covering a hulking frame of mail-protected fat and muscle.

He was Stigandr, Jarl of the Warborn Clan and _de facto_ ruler of Valkenheim much as Gudmundr once was. Though that legacy was not an easy shield to take up, both were Warlords, warriors who earned their place by traditions as ancient as stone. For a decade now he had led them, ever since his release from a dungeon cell in the mountains northwest of where they now met. Warlords were often the leaders of their people, for they were meant to be protectors, and the two duties went hand in hand. 

But that also meant that in times like this, he had to protect them from themselves.

That was the burden that Stigandr now faced as he looked to the assembled jarls and chieftains of the various clans that made up the Warborn. They met in a great hall, one rebuilt as a new gathering place of the clans. The shields and tapestries that covered the walls portrayed the history of the place - from its founding, to becoming the hall of the Jarl of Wolves, to how it burned as the herald of the edge of extinction in Valkenheim. Ironic, that they assembled so he could tell them what he had learned of that herald from their enemies.

The assembled leaders were a mix of faces he was long familiar with from shared battles, others newcomers from distant shores such as their brethren across the seas or a chieftain from mist-shrouded highlands. Others were much closer to him, such as the Raider that spoke up to finally break the silence as they processed his question.

“So what would you have us do, Jarl?” the living legend asked, tilting his helmeted head.

The long horns of his helmet were an iconic sight these days, even if they had been cleaned of enemy blood for this meeting. He wore no armor, even the bits of leather he wore like shoulder pads or his pants were not really passable as such. After all, leather was easily pierced. He had gained many tattoos since Stigandr had first met him, Thor’s hammer flanked by wings on his chest accompanied now by countless more scars and mementos of the numerous battles since.

He may have appeared leaner than Stigandr, but he was no less strong - perhaps the opposite, even. Snorri Sindrison was no mere Raider, already a legend, but he was known as _The_ Great Raider for his role in, well, the Great Raid. A tragic lack of imagination for such a great warrior’s epithet.

“What I would have us do,” Stigandr explained as he turned in place to face his old comrade, having stepped into the middle of the hall so all could easily see him, “is to accept this offer to talk. To receive an offer in good faith in kind. Perhaps there will be no peace, perhaps the wars shall degrade to skirmishes between clan or house, but they have had to overcome great hatred to make this offer. I would respect _that_ , even if nothing comes of it.”

“Hah!” one jarl snorted as she threw down an empty mead horn. “Easy for that whore the knights call a ‘Lord-Warden’,” she made a point of babying her pronunciation of the title, “to talk to us about peace. Wolfsbane never saw her children starve to death!”

“Hear hear!”

“And Wolfsbane was the one who starved us!”

“Who is she to demand peace of _us_ , Valkenheim’s proud sons and daughters?!”

“She speaks the truth!”

“Why should we make peace with weaklings?!”

The outcry subsided and Stigandr felt himself inhaling. Yes, that had been one hiccup that he, Cross, and Ayu had discussed before returning home. The role of the new Lord-Warden in the destruction of Sverngard, and how it was not going to be accepted by the knights that she die as part of any treaty - no more than the Warborn would deliver Snorri’s head to the Dawn Empire.

“And the samurai,” Stigandr retorted as eyes fell on him, “Did we not sack their greatest city without provocation? Did we not burn, rape, and pillage our way through their lands over them having a good year?”

“At your order!” the Raider called out, resting a hand on his knee as he pointed with the other. “You were the one that set us on the path to the Great Raid!”

“I did,” the Warlord admitted as he knew he weakened his case, but maybe he could limit how weakened it was. “And at the time, we knew what we needed. Food, resources. Throwing ourselves at the Blackstone Legion would only see us destroyed in our ascendance. I thought to outwit Apollyon, but we only became her minions.”

“So are we to take responsibility for her atrocities, while ignoring the Legions’ countless crimes against us?” demanded another woman and Stigandr felt his gut chill somewhat. Though she was not wearing her winged helm, they all recognized Runa. Though no clan leader, she was the current speaker for her sisters-in-oath in this assembly of clans.

“Only as far as they will forgive our deeds against them,” he answered firmly. “Come, we are no cowards. We can take responsibility for being pawns without losing our pride in what we achieved!”

“And this Lord-Warden, does she take responsibility? Does her pawn of a Lawbringer take responsibility for their role in our starvation?”

Stigandr turned towards the Raider. “Yes, they do. It was the Sacking of Sverngard that led the Wolfsbane to abandon her oaths to Apollyon, Snorri.”

The Raider leaned forward, frowning as his braided black beard with an iron ring at the end bounced against his stomach. “And do you remember the oath I swore, old friend?”

“How could I not? I was there when you swore it.”

He nodded. “That oath stands, Stigandr. No matter the epithet she is known by - the Sword of Harrowgate, Wolfsbane, Lord-Warden, it matters not: _I will defeat her_. And when she lies broken before me, she will be spared and brought to Valkenheim. To live just long enough to be hanged in offering to the gods, forever proving our supremacy. That oath I swore, and that oath I will keep or die in the attempt.”

The hall fell silent. That oath was well known, and despite multiple attempts to uphold it he never succeeded. In victory and defeat alike, both hunter and hunted survived their encounters just as one particularly persistent Orochi never managed to land a deathblow on the Raider for his role in Koto’s sacking. And it was one oath that Stigandr had feared most when he considered the possibility of his people no longer having to lose their kin in these wars: Snorri would never break that oath.

But that did not mean the rest of the clans would support him in continuing to pursue it.

“No one doubts your commitment, brother,” Stigandr finally said. “We all shared your grief in the loss of Gudmundr, and we have made the legions howl for it. All of them, from the new Iron Legion in Ashfeld, to the Faustians on the Ice Coast, all the way west to the Grail Legion. No one can say that you have been negligent in your oath. Those that do should be shamed for their ignorance!”

“Yet if we yield here, we as good as forget the slaughter she carried out. She and her entire damned inner circle - including the man you met!”

The hall murmured again in assent, though no shouts came as they respected the argument between the two brothers in arms. Even Runa, who had every right to intervene, held her tongue for now.

“And what of the samurai?” Stigandr asked as he looked back. “Should they take their justice on us for our role in the Great Raid?”

“If we _must_ have peace, pay them a wergild,” Snorri snorted as he waved a hand.

“So why can the legions not pay the same, since we rightly refuse to let Sverngard be forgotten?”

“This is different, and you damn well know it! Apollyon brought us to the _brink of extinction_! She left us murdering each other for scraps like starved dogs in a pit!”

“And were the samurai much different, with the loss of Koto and their civil war?” Stigandr asked as he looked across the hall. “If we were all killed, right now, how many of your kin would die in the ensuing fighting?”

They all shifted in their seats, the jarls looking uncomfortable as they looked to their kin who accompanied them, the sons and daughters gaining experience before they might take on the mantle of leading their clans. A fear that was all too real as no one in the room had been too young to not remember the year after Apollyon came, and all but a very select few of them had lost kin to another in the room during the fratricidal fighting over what food remained. Stigandr pressed that point forward.

“We are all tired of seeing our loved ones sent to Valhalla before their time,” he continued. “We would all face it gladly, but for what do we fight anymore? Every grudge we settle sees them take their own vengeance, and so we must avenge it in turn. The very feuds that this assembly sits to resolve, on an even greater scale.”

“Yet we should not carry them out against each other,” Snorri countered as he seemed to sense the swaying in the assembly. “To see Warborn slaughter each other over scraps is a disgrace Apollyon forced upon us. We rose above it, we reclaimed the gods’ favor and the strength to take from the weaklings what is rightfully ours!”

The Great Raider rose, stepping forward as he looked to them all. “We are feared, warriors! The knights shiver in the tin shit they call armor, fearing that for all their vaunted technology we desecrate their lone god’s temples with impunity! The samurai, weak as ever, know that in a generation or two they will be extinct! And unlike Apollyon, we will bring them to their extinction as true warriors, rather than hiding behind famine!”

“So, you want war. Only war.” Stigandr asked, pointedly repeating the monster’s last words that the Emperor’s Champion had relayed to her empress.

“You compare your battle brother to Apollyon?!” Runa cut in suddenly, causing both men to turn and look at her as she was scowling. “Stigandr, I thought you were better than this!”

“The comparison is apt, Runa, because we all have been Apollyon’s pawns - knights, samurai, and vikings alike continuing the war she started,” Stigandr answered as he held his arms out. “War is our birthright, let none deny that when we are wronged. But this war has lost the meaning that makes a death in battle honorable, beyond that of entering Valhalla.”

The Warlord gave it a moment to sink in before continuing. “Even today, as her lone god certainly damns her, Apollyon laughs! She laughs at us for being her pawns still, because we cannot set aside our axes!”

“And what of the next war?” the Valkyrie demanded. “When this peace inevitably breaks into war, will that be Apollyon’s war as well?”

“Perhaps,” the Warlord answered as he met her gaze, “but if we refuse to even try to end this war, then Apollyon wins. We remain her perfect pawns. At least by trying, we break the first links of our chains.”

The hall fell silent as all the jarls digested the arguments. They had all felt the pain that the years of war had caused - they were not constant field battles where hundreds of men and women lay dead every day, but they had all felt the pressure of the unending conflict. The Warborn, for their part, had always sustained their losses thanks to large families. Apollyon had cut that out from under them, but they still had their kin overseas. That did not change the fact that countless parents buried their children and vice versa, and the strain it caused on all of them.

But was peace the answer? As far as Stigandr was concerned, yes it was: Valkenheim had recovered with the loot gained in war, but its families suffered. Would the next generation be strong enough to continue their legacy, or would it be winnowed out? That did not mean the rest would agree, and he knew now that the Raider was not ready for peace. And as that thought crossed the Warlord’s mind, Snorri exhaled and turned to the assembly.

“We have listened for a long time,” the Raider said as he looked to the various leaders. “With this assembly’s agreement, I move that we adjourn the debate for now. Let us digest this knowledge as we take in the food of this year’s bounty!”

The assembly agreed quickly, and soon enough servants brought in tables and they all settled down to eat, drink, and laugh. To forget the troubles for a time, and let their minds understand what had been revealed. For Stigandr, however, it was time he had to spend deciding exactly what he was going to do.

* * *

“You really believe in this peace idea, don’t you?”

Stigandr glanced to his right as a familiar Berserker with a big black beard stepped towards him. He was still wearing the face plate rather than a full helmet, and as always his shirt was open enough to show off his excessive chest hair. Two hatchets were on his belt, along with a few other odds and ends like a ferret’s tail. No scalps this time, fortunately… he left those at home.

“I do, Helvar,” the Warlord admitted as the Berserker took his place and they looked out across the main road into Sverngard.

The city had been rebuilt after Apollyon’s devastating attack, started just before the Great Raid and completed afterwards. It was rebuilt as a symbol of defiance, that the Warborn would not be broken. Yet no longer did it appear more storehouse than fortress - the merchants who once called it home had moved on. Those who returned focused their wares to that of providing an army what it needed, with precious few examples of the works of art or wonders from far off lands that used to dominate its markets.

Even though Stigandr had overseen the city’s reconstruction, and sent them the materials and labor needed after taking it by force, the Warlord now had to wonder. What would Gudmundr think of what his clan’s home had been turned to? Would the once-mighty Whitewolf Clan be glad to know that Sverngard was now the fortress the people of the Warborn could shelter in, or would the Jarl of Wolves chide them for living up to their name too well yet again? What would that legend say to them, if he could appear before the assembly?

“You know, I still think that you were crazy for going.”

“Says the Berserker,” he answered with a brief grin before shaking his head. “No, it was foolish, but you saw the lack of Iron Legion. Cross showed up alone.”

“I still think there were Peacekeepers lying in wait,” Helvar insisted. “I felt like someone was watching me the whole time.”

“Maybe, they would want the meeting to succeed.” Stigandr sighed. “I knew that peace wasn’t going to go over well with the others, but I can’t keep leading us into battle knowing that we are still Apollyon’s pawns. That we’ve been her thralls ever since Sverngard’s sacking.”

Helvar didn’t say anything after that, leaving the two to their thoughts. The Berserker might have had a very casual approach to fighting, with a knack for making a fool of himself even as he was a deadly warrior, but in many ways he was the heart of their party. The life of the feast, the laughter that kept them from crying when it got too hard. Even in the famine, he kept up high spirits as best he could - ‘for the future’ he would say as he tried to distract the starving children from their suffering by intentionally screwing up his tricks with his axes.

How many of those children had lived long enough to become adults, only to be cut down in the war? How many thought they had broken past Apollyon’s reign of terror, survived the monster that would be synonymous with evil for generations to come, only to die as her victim still? All they had done, in glory and in rebuilding Valkenheim, suddenly felt hollow. Was Sverngard standing as the symbol of resilience, or was it but a monument to their own hubris in thinking fighting Apollyon’s war would free them from her legacy?

“Would you do anything different?” he asked suddenly. “Would you launch the Great Raid, knowing what we know now?”

“Yeah, I would.”

Stigandr felt himself staring.

“What? You said it yourself - we needed the resources, and the samurai had a good year.”

“And it took us what, two years to build a big enough fleet?” the Warlord answered as he shook his head. “We rebuilt just fine on our own: the seed grain from our island kin was what we needed.”

“To fill our bellies?” the Berserker shrugged. “Sure, but our hearts? You remember what Snorri said after Kaiyo Kabe. That the raid on the samurai would remind us who we are.”

“Yes, reminded us of how to be marauders, pillagers, Raiders…” he exhaled before shaking his head, his mind drifting to his youth. “Oh to be young again, to think the world was simpler. But no, I became a Warlord. I told myself that I would raid for the betterment of my people.”

“And you did,” Helvar insisted as he put a hand on his shoulder. “The Great Raid was what we needed. We could finally prepare the attack on Apollyon.”

Yes, it supplied for the campaign and far more, but was it _needed_ to go after her? That question lingered in his mind, and every thought added to his doubt. Even saying that it was needed to provoke the samurai into attacking Apollyon, that was hindsight. There was no reasonable way to predict what happened, not from where they stood.

Exhaling, Stigandr changed the topic as he gently moved Helvar’s hand away. “Not that it matters, we’ll sort that out later. The real question is whether we even accept the attempt.”

“And you want us to.”

“Yes. You heard what I said about Apollyon. If we keep fighting, then she wins.”

“And you compared Snorri to her,” the Berserker hesitated a moment as he glanced along the road. “Was that really necessary?”

“Yes,” he decided as he shook his head again, leaning against the battlements. “We have to understand that we have all been her pawns.”

“And if we want to continue fighting, knowing this, we should admit it?”

The Warlord nodded, leaving the Berserker to exhale.

“I don’t like the idea of being Apollyon’s pawn either, but that crone has been dead for seven years.”

“And we’re still attacking the knights, blaming her enemies for what she did to us. Are we that petty, Helvar? Are you willing to see your daughters die in an unending blood feud, rather than for defending their homes?”

Helvar shifted, looking away with a frown. Both of them were old enough now to start raiding, and both had taken after their father. Perhaps not Berserkers, yet, but they would be in the front ranks by choice. And then there was the rest of his surprisingly large brood following that, all chomping at the bit.

“They may be willing,” Stigandr seized the opportunity, “we all are, but that doesn’t mean it is right for them to die in a pointless war. I’d rather my people die in a war worthy of them, not the game of some dead knight.”

“As would I. But this is the war we have. The gods wrote fate to be like this.”

“Or maybe they intend for us to learn, and grow stronger by rejecting the easy path. It would be easy to keep fighting.” The Warlord rose to his full height. “My duty is to my people, even if it is to protect them from themselves. But if I am, I have to know: do I have your support?”

The Berserker hesitated again, looking away as he frowned. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, both hands pressed against his hatchets. But, finally, he nodded. “You do, Stig. Hel’s bony tit, you actually do. I don’t think it’ll work, but,” he hesitated again. “If you think we have to try, then let’s try.”

“Thank you, old friend,” Stigandr answered as he put a hand on Helvar’s shoulder. “Besides, dying to do this would be a tale that would last centuries!”

“Hah! There’s the Warlord I know.”

* * *

“I thought I would find you here.”

Snorri turned as, half-smiling as the very well muscled woman walked up to him. “There are no finer hunters, Runa.”

“Amongst mortals, yes,” she shrugged as she looked up at the tree the Raider had been staring at.

It had been burned during the attack, nothing grew on it anymore, yet it still stood even as the temple within the city had been burned to the foundations by the Blackstone Legion. When the Warborn rebuilt Sverngard, Snorri had fallen asleep under the tree and dreamed of it burning, yet standing. Just as the gods had when Ragnarok came a thousand years ago, just as humanity had survived it all. What better symbol of the resilience of the Warborn and to honor their gods with than this? It was now the center of a new temple, one the Warborn put to full use in showing the supremacy of their warriors and gods alike.

“So, what do you think?” he asked as he turned. “Do you think we remain Apollyon’s pawns by fighting this war?”

“Does it matter?” the Valkyrie asked back as she stepped next to him. “Blood would shed regardless, as we have a birthright to retake. Apollyon simply struck first.”

“And killed the Jarl of Wolves,” the Raider exhaled as he glanced towards the runestone raised to honor that great warrior. “I do not begrudge the Blackstone Legion trying to kill him first, they rightly feared him, and Mount Rust’s eruption roused him from his vigil.”

“But you begrudge what happened after?”

“Of course I do!” Snorri whirled around to match her gaze. “Vikings slaughtering each other over scraps, like rabid dogs in a kennel! Ragnar was one of the worst, but only because of his slaughter. Others ate their own kin, and not even out of hate! And then my clan…”

The Raider paused, inhaling and looking northwest, past the mountains. To his home. “And my clan were the worst of the lot. Enjoying the newfound position of strength we had from being the first to loot Sverngard’s remains, and battering our neighbors into submission.”

“Siv was not called ‘the Ruthless’ for nothing.”

“No, she wasn’t,” he admitted with a faint smile as more intimate memories arose. “But she mistook our weakness for strength. When the question came, she had no hesitation in damning our neighbors to save ourselves.”

Runa shrugged. “Do we not do the same to the knights and samurai, killing their weak and taking their possessions as pillage?”

“But they _are_ the weak, in fear of us as they should be. More importantly, _they are not Norse_. I care for my people, and that means providing for them.”

“Like the Great Raid,” Runa nodded as she smiled. “Crazy enough to work, and got us what we needed.”

“And now…” Snorri inhaled as he ran a hand along his beard. “And now Stigandr, of all warriors, wants us to put our weapons down. He would have us share our tables with those that feasted while we starved!”

“And we feast to celebrate taking their food.”

“Are you trying to tell me I am wrong, Runa?”

The Valkyrie shook her head. “No. There will be no peace, we both know that. But we do not need to hide what we are. We are Warborn - it is in our very name. Why should we reject our nature?”

Snorri smiled, looking up at the tree and taking a deep breath. “When we fight our constant foes, there is none. But Stigandr is right about one thing, if not in the way he believes.”

“Oh?”

“We have been Apollyon’s pawns,” he admitted despite having fumed at the comparison when it was made. “Her other words that Stigandr told us, to admit what we are?”

“She wanted us to admit we were the scavenging dogs, did she not?”

“Perhaps that was how she viewed it, being a knight,” Snorri turned and felt his smile crossing his lips. “But wolves fight as a pack to survive. What are the Warborn but the greatest of such packs? Yes, we tear and savage our enemies, just as wolves would to bring down lions.”

“Then we must remain united,” she warned as she looked back towards the great hall where the midday feast was winding down. “Stigandr means to do right by our people, but this argument will paralyze the clans when they must be strong.”

Running a hand along his beard, he realized that Runa had struck an aspect he had neglected. “How vulnerable must our enemies be to be willing to attempt this? I wonder, has the Lord-Warden truly united her people, or is that yet another lie of theirs to appear stronger than they are?”

“You think this is an attempt to buy time. To slow the fighting down so she can consolidate?”

“Maybe. I don’t pretend to know or care about the schemes their courts create.” Shaking his head, he turned back towards the great hall. “Come, I think we should get back to this unfortunate business.” 

* * *

As everyone expected, the arguments went on for hours, but quickly it became clear that there was a divide. About half of their number supported either peace outright or just making the attempt, the other either outright rejected it or felt the attempt would not work. And while the pro-war faction had a slight majority, it was too slim to let that alone dictate the course of the Warborn Clans.

But one only had to listen to the arguments to hear what was happening. To hear what the Jarls said to each other to see the resurfacing rivalries and those being created.

“We Seacrows have already lost a whole generation to the legions! It is time the fighting stop!”

“Those weaklings are just trying to buy time! Let’s burn Koto again, wipe the Dawn Empire off the map once and for all!”

“Peace with those fools is a lie, and they still squat on Ashfeld!”

“They have defended that claim with steel time and again, how many more must we send to their deaths?!”

“If the Fairhair Clan still wimpers from the whipping Asmodai gave them, then stay home and farm!”

“Bonerest warriors continue to raid their western shores, why should we stop raiding so Valkenheim can know peace?”

“Would you damn your Dragonfang ancestors in the process? Or is your clan merely in a guts-and-glory phase?”

“The Stormwood Clan is ready for war, do not say otherwise because we will listen to parley!”

Though all those shouts and such between clans were bad, what could have escalated it into a full scale brawl was an exchange between the Jarl of the Bonerest Clan and one of their allied leaders.

“You Highlanders only want peace because you can’t stomach real war!” that Jarl shouted, his blazing red beard forked and bouncing with his shout. “After all, you cowards came crawling to us against the Skraelings!”

“Touch not this cat,” the Highlander chieftain warned as he rose to his feet, cracking his knuckles. “You cannot even afford gloves.”

“Why you pathetic-” The rest of the insult was cut off as that Jarl stormed forward, ungloved fists raised.

_“ENOUGH!”_

Stigandr had thrown himself forward, grabbing the other Jarl with that shout. Also shouting with him was Snorri, who caught the Highlander and kept him from meeting the challenge.

“Enough, enough Agnarr!” Stigandr continued as he managed to throw the other warrior back towards his seat. “They have honored their alliances, and you insult them for missing their homes?!”

The red haired Jarl simply kept his gaze fixed on the kilted warrior he had insulted.

Meanwhile, Snorri turned the Highlander around and spoke to him face to face. “This is not the time, Chief MacGillivray. You can settle his accusation in the proper way, but not in Sverngard’s hospitality!”

The Highlander growled, striding back to his seat with a continued glare. A moment later, the Jarl also returned to his seat.

_This is going nowhere,_ Stigandr realized as he looked across the room. The hall had fallen silent, but he could see it. There were two camps forming, as the Jarls had sat roughly now in accordance to their stance. Half on one side supporting peace, where Snorri now stood after he had stopped half the brawl, while Stigandr stood by the larger half wanting the war as he had done the same.

He knew what was coming, the near-brawl was just a tease. _If we cannot resolve this now, this is going to escalate into clan wars, too many of them._

Snorri was the biggest obstacle. Those supporting continued war flocked to him, while the others fell in behind Stigandr. Those two warriors had their supporters, Helvar speaking up for Stigandr as Runa did for Snorri, but the Raider and Warlord were the ones with the biggest argument.

Exhaling, Stigandr understood. This could only be resolved with blood. He hated the idea, but they lived up to their name too well. But he refused to go to that, not without one last attempt.

“Snorri, my brother,” he said as he turned towards him. “We are at odds, aren’t we?”

“We are,” the Raider sighed, shaking his head. “What have we come to, to argue with each other like dogs fighting for a scrap of meat?”

“It is this constant war, friend. We are all hurting, even as we have all grown from it.”

“And we will grow stronger still, while our enemies weaken.” The two approached each other, the Raider holding out a hand that Stigandr took. “We will win this war, no matter their attempts to make a white peace.”

“Perhaps,” Stigandr conceded with a shrug. “But what will remain of us after? We do not argue for lasting terms today, we argue to simply attend.”

“And will we even accept the terms that come out?”

“We will never know unless we try.”

“But as we attend this parley, our enemies will recover.”

“As will we, and we will grow faster than they would in that short break.”

“Hah! That we would, but we do not need such tricks to triumph.”

Stigandr felt his stomach tightening. “Snorri, I know I cannot stop you. We could sign a peace treaty that we liked, but it will never allow you to fulfill your oath. You do not need us, you could gather the warriors you needed to fulfill it yourself.”

“I could,” he agreed, “but I would avenge Gudmundr with my fellows warriors, rather than against them. I would have you at my side, Jarl Stigandr, my brother in battle, when Wolfsbane falls.”

“And I could not ask for a finer champion as our people’s vanguard,” he answered as he turned, so that he and Snorri were aligned with the faction they were with. “But the Warborn stand on a crossroads, one I fear we cannot resolve in this assembly for all our efforts.”

He let go, taking a step back as Snorri looked down himself, jaw slowly dropping as the assembled leaders muttered.

“Stigandr, what are you saying?”

“What I am saying is that Warborn blood will be spilt before we come to terms. I would have the blood of only two spill. If we have no other recourse, then let us settle this with a holmgang, to settle it by strength and the gods’ will in this affair.”

The hall fell entirely silent. Stigandr had not directly challenged Snorri, he wanted to give his friend a chance to argue without rejecting such a challenge, a chance to propose a third option that Stigandr could not find. If not, they both knew who would be called on for the duel. The two leaders that led their arguments.

And the Raider knew it, shaking his head. “I do not want to fight you, Stigandr.”

“Nor do I, Snorri, but who else can we call on?”

“Damn it, no one. We both lead, and we are the ones at odds.”

“So, shall I formally issue the challenge?”

“Not yet,” the Raider insisted. “I will accept it, or issue it if need be, but we should give this course of action thought. I refuse to fight a warrior like you without ample time for us to be _sure_ about this. This is no challenge to issue lightly.”

Stigandr exhaled. His course was still a weight against his shoulders, but it was a save he had not thought through. A time limit might convince enough of those sitting close to the fence to reconsider, and those individuals were likely to talk to each other at that.

“Let us take three days, then,” Stigandr agreed. “Three days to try and resolve this by words. To make our peace with the gods, or consult them for any wisdom they would offer to our dispute. If we cannot come to an agreement, I will issue the challenge in surety.”

“And come the third night, I will accept the cruel fate that has been written by the gods,” Snorri answered. “I have no wish to shed the blood of another warrior like this, but I will not see our people divided either.”

“Nor would I. Let tomorrow, the day after, and the third day be our chance to resolve this. But after dinner on that third day, this assembly will meet one last time. If we cannot come to terms, then we resort to this trial. May Odin’s wisdom guide us in this matter."


	2. Second Thoughts

A violent deadline was an amazing motivator, especially in politics. The three days were spent in a frenzy, a desperate effort to find a compromise between the two parties. Some advocated it was simple - let it go through, then reject the peace terms if (or when) they were unacceptable. Others countered that going in knowing they would likely be rejected was dishonorable, and they should continue the wars without such a stop. And some simply felt the whole thing was a waste of time and they should instead be arguing over how to defeat the Legions and Chosen. The stalemate remained fixed, and the third day was given to individual discussions before the night came.

Exhaling, Stigandr rested his head against a pillar supporting his hall in rebuilt Sverngard. His own home was a two floor building, though the second floor was more of a platform over half of the hall. He had decorated it richly with mementos of past battles and works of art he found in the market that he liked, living quite comfortably when his duties called him here.

"You are troubled, Warlord."

_Where are my manners?_ He realized as he shook his head, pushing himself from the pillar and turning to the man sitting at his table, ancient in years with similarly old grey robes and hat. The old man's beard was white as the snow that would come soon, and his gnarled staff rested by the door as per hospitality.

"I apologize, Gestr. Matters have been difficult as of late."

"You need not apologize," he answered, "but you must be certain. That is why I came here to speak to you."

Stigandr nodded, glancing towards the firepit. "Where is my guest's mead? Yuina, get him a horn already!"

"Yes, master!" the slavegirl hastily answered, breaking away from the pot she was overlooking and grabbing one of the smaller drinking horns that hung on a rack nearby.

Stigandr settled down across from his guest, who had taken his hat off. Though both his eyes appeared intact, he had known that one had grown bad over the years, more bloodshot than the other. But whatever the man lost in vision, he had gained in wisdom.

Wisdom that the Warlord sorely needed as the thrall gave the guest his mead, and another brought bread freshly baked that morning.

"I see you still have your trophy," Gestr remarked before he drank.

Stigandr shrugged as he glanced at the Chosen woman bearing a brand on the back of her neck. She had been part of his share of the loot from Koto, along with a few other slaves and many possessions. She was the only one still around, though. Disease, attempted escapes, one that tried to kill him during a siege, but there were no shortage of thralls in the markets to replace them.

"Regardless," the old man continued, "I come concerned of the dangerous division brewing between the clan leaders, a division that you have brought."

"I do not regret bringing this offer," he answered as mead for himself was also brought over, taking a drink out of the hollowed out horn. "It was a challenge we would face regardless. Fate has simply given the opportunity now, rather than later."

"So it is, but a holmgang with the Great Raider himself?"

"It is our last resort, one that I would avoid if I could."

"You believe that there must be peace?"

"I believe that we must try. Apollyon played us all, one against the other. She used us especially as her puppets. If we do not even try to seek peace, we will remain tangled in string."

Gestr took another sip of his mean before frowning. "Why do you care so much for a dead woman's thoughts, Stigandr? She can no longer harm you or your people. You have survived the horrors she forced upon Valkenheim."

That made him pause. Did it really matter what Apollyon would think of them?

_No,_ he realized as he inhaled. It was not Apollyon that concerned him - she was just the symbol of something that had gnawed at him.

"She does not matter," he admitted as he met Gestr's gaze, "but what _we_ do matters. _Why_ we do it. Why are we fighting this war - are we fighting for our families, for riches, or just because we can?"

"Gudmundr once asked similar questions, and answered them in his own way. Yet he was willing to take up his sword when the time was right."

"Keeping the peace between the clans."

His guest nodded.

"I don't want to fight Snorri," he continued as he looked down. "But he's too stubborn…" he paused a moment to smile, shaking his head. "No, he's too _honorable_ to consider breaking his oath, and he knows that if we have peace he will never get the chance."

Gestr shrugged. "Or perhaps it merely delays it, but you are right. Yet you stubbornly hold to this as the path forward, knowing the dangerous waters you sail."

"Better that two warriors bleed and die rather than thousands, especially since if we must also fight the knights and samurai later."

"Indeed. Even if you succeed, the clans must face those great threats." Gestr finished his drink and set the horn down with a soft thud. "Snorri's death will dishearten many, and there is no guarantee his followers will simply accept the peace you propose."

The Warlord frowned, but held his tongue for the moment. That was all true, but was it simply the price they would have to pay to stop dying in a war that had lost all meaning?

_You're thinking about a friend!_ A part of him chided. _This is far more than keeping morale up!_

"Now, besides this," the old man said in a sudden change, "I do bring some good news, if you would hear it."

"I would," Stigandr agreed as he reached for the bread.

"The scars Apollyon's passing placed on the land have faded - the herds return to the woods, filling them with game once more."

"You mean, we no longer have to be so cautious with hunting?" Stigandr perked up as he realized the implications that would have. "That is good news, the Jarls can let others hunt as they used to!"

"Yes," Gestr chuckled, "I thought that news might brighten your day a bit, before I spoke to Snorri."

That damped it right back down, especially as the thought about having to fight a friend kept gnawing at him.

"You saw much in him," the Warlord continued, "Do you think he has more to do for the Warborn?"

"A legend does as a legend will. Legends of glory are also legends of loss, it is all a question of who views it. A warm sun may herald the melting of the snows, or an avalanche."

"Well, at least I know one thing will remain."

"Oh? And what is that?"

"You still speak in vague riddles."

The old man chuckled, followed by Stigandr, as the slaves kept glancing over from their work to make sure they were not being summoned.

* * *

 

"You're not drinking, Snorri."

"I'm not?" The Raider blinked as the Berserker spoke, glancing down to his full horn resting in its stand. "So I'm not," he mused as he finally reached for the auburn brew and drank.

"Is it the upcoming challenge?" Runa asked, sitting across from the two. "This is no burden to bear lightly."

"Yes," Snorri admitted, glancing at Helvar briefly as the Berserker turned his head. "I don't want to fight Stigandr, even if I must."

"He doesn't want to fight you either," Helvar pointed out. "And really… I don't. Not like this, anyways."

Snorri chuckled as memories came back. "I still think I won that brawl."

"Perhaps you two can get drunk beforehand," the Valkyrie cut in as she folded her arms. "A holmgang fought so drunk that it took a blow from Mjolnir to knock the loser out."

"It would answer the question of the gods' intent once and for all," Helvar remarked, suddenly running a hand through his beard. "But I can't laugh at it."

"I was not joking."

That left the table in the mead hall silent, leading the Raider to look down at his brew even as some of it soaked his beard. As the challenge loomed over them, the Raider needed answers, different from those he might gather from a priest or the omens. That he could only find in those who had been with him through thick and thin.

"So…" Helvar started, hesitating as he glanced towards the Raider and back to his mead a few times. "About the stuff we heard. That Apollyon used us, used the Great Raid."

"She was a cunning hag, I'll give her that," Snorri growled, "but I don't see why we should deny what we are because of that."

"Of course not, but it makes you wonder. Did she really lose, when that Orochi killed her?"

"Given that all that remains of her followers is the odd cult? Yes, I would say she lost the battle," Runa remarked, raising an eyebrow as she looked towards the Berserker.

"But she wasn't trying to build that kind of legacy, was she? She wanted this war as her legacy."

"Then we will give her what she desired," Snorri declared as he smiled, "and her people will forever curse her name for speeding their downfall."

Helvar exhaled, glancing at him before turning away and shaking his head. "Right. Well, all I can say is I really hope you and Stigandr can find another way. We need both of you."

Snorri glanced at the door. "We haven't met outside of the assembly since…"

"Go," Runa interrupted. "This shouldn't wait."

Nodding, The Raider rose and left the mead hall without hesitation. Had he been on the road, he would have grabbed his axe on the way out, but in Sverngard he was happy to leave it where he slept. He could always take a weapon from anyone dumb enough to attack him… if the fight lasted that long.

Still, as he walked he felt troubled. What could he say - 'I'm sorry that I'm going to kill you, but you're in my way'? This wasn't some old warrior in a hut holding what he needed, this was _Stigandr_. They had been side by side for a decade. They were the architects of the Great Raid and countless other victories - _battles that Apollyon wanted._

"I see you are troubled, Great Raider."

Turning sharply, he was about to growl when he saw the old man who addressed him, clad in his worn grey robes and his hat covering one eye, gnarled staff in hand. Snorri knew this man, few of import in Valkenheim didn't. Even Siv had listened to his counsel, though he rarely appeared before the Bearclaw Clan. Rumors were abounds as to the exact nature of the man, but Snorri preferred to focus on what mattered.

"Gestr," the Raider remarked as he faced the old man. "I wondered when you would arrive."

"Ill news is an ill guest, especially in these mountains," he answered as they stepped closer to each other, the old man using his staff as he walked. "I fear my counsel cannot give you an alternative today, warrior."

Exhaling, the Raider shook his head. "There isn't one. It is a question of who we are, and we are the Warborn."

"But does that mean war is endless?" Gestr gestured along the path, towards Sverngard's main temple, and the two walked along the forested path as birds nesting in the trees above warned of their passing to each other. Including, as Snorri always seemed to find when Gestr was around, a raven.

"Of course not, it will end when our enemies lie broken."

"And then what?" the old man asked, turning his gaze to see him. "What then?"

"We look for the next challenge, or are you here to sway me to a new path again?"

"Alas, such a thing can only be done once."

Snorri held his tongue. The first time that the old wiseman had taken such an interest in him was the year after Apollyon came. Gestr had a way with visions - not quite a priest, yet in many ways more knowledgeable than them and versed in prophecy. He claimed to only be a messenger, yet he always gave something for the Raider to see for himself to learn truth. Like exactly which clan was weak enough to harbor and listen to missionaries from the Ice Coast in exchange for the promise of grain.

He had been the one to awaken him to just how off his path had been, staying with Siv and his clan as they became the worst of Apollyon's wolves, mingling with the likes of Ragnar without shame. Snorri was not sure how the wiseman knew exactly how to get to him, but he always had a way.

"But you have a choice here, mighty Raider," Gestr continued. "Your fate is written, yet here the writing branches. Two rings of silver, both of the same quality and markings, in two different hares. One given to Freya, one to Frigg, yet the omen was the same."

"You are saying we can choose our path here. What Stigandr has been saying, that we can choose to find peace."

"You can choose to _try_. When he heard of this dispute, the priests in Iarla consulted the gods for answers. Yet no omens could be taken, no portent to if peace could be done."

Snorri frowned as he considered the implications. Why were the gods silent at this crucial moment? The omens had been grand when they made their offerings for the safety of their fleet, and remained so when they went after Apollyon's fortress. Yet now they were silent?

"So, there is nothing to do but fight for the path forward," he exhaled. "The old ways of blood that stir our people."

"Indeed… yet, have you ever wondered why that is?"

"Do you mean, have I wondered why we need warriors like Runa for those too valorous to die in battle, or the good men that never needed to fight?"

A single nod was his answer as they approached the gates of the temple, petitioners and priests alike making their offerings in search of guidance or to show piety.

"This is a harsh land, one where even the very air can kill you with its chill," he continued as he glanced down. He was wearing his usual lack of clothes above the waist, for the autumn air was still warm. Had it been winter, he would have been clad in thick furs - furs that he shed when the time came to fight. He was a living legend, but living legends could still get frostbite.

"And that is if sickness or hunger does not do the same. Utter wastes."

"And old age is no better, even with a long and fulfilling life," Snorri exhaled again. "To watch yourself become infirm, bedridden, hapless… pathetic."

The old man chuckled as they came to a stop before the tree that Snorri had stared at three days ago, when Runa came to talk to him. "You do not see me as pathetic, do you?"

"You have aged gracefully, but I have seen other warriors waste away, longing for the chance to die spear in hand."

"A fate that Gudmundr faced, even as he kept himself fit. Wolfsbane spared him that ignominy."

"By letting him see all he worked for burn around him!" the Raider snapped immediately. "He watched his _family_ burn in their own hall!"

"Yet he died sword in hand, against a worthy foe," Gestr remarked as he looked to the skull hanging in one noose from the previous blot. "By our nature, he has died well. A nature that he himself questioned."

"I remember his questions, of what we forgot in our great voyages from Valkenheim when the world shattered." Snorri tilted his head. "You believe that he was right, that we have forgotten things in war?"

"Perhaps. Or perhaps he simply wished for something better for his people than to see their sons and daughters die in puddles of their own blood. To find something else."

"To make peace."

"Indeed. Sverngard was known for trade, not war, even if it had warriors. Yet now you have come full circle since our fateful meeting, since you forswore your former clan to be pure Warborn."

"Are you saying Stigandr is right to compare me to that dead crone?!" Snorri could feel his fists clenching, forcing himself to resist the urge to strike the man - especially on such holy ground.

"That is for you to decide," Gester explained as he kept his gaze fixed. "What one sees as just and right, another sees as savage plunder. A smith can forge two axes with the same steel, yet as one faces scorn in its use the other is praised."

"Another riddle?"

"Think on it," he answered with a shrug. "You already know the answer, the question is will you accept it, or will you deny it?"

"We are war, it is our very name. Our people live freely, and will not sit quietly as others wrong us. Those wrongs will come, no matter the peace. And warriors will make them right."

"So it is." Gestr glanced out of the temple for a moment, then back to him. "I spoke to Stigandr, and I think you both should speak again. Your holmgang is inevitable, but you two have still been each other's shield brother. Talk to him. Make peace with what is to come. And tomorrow, I will ferry the two of you to the isle."

Snorri nodded once. This was why he had come - to be the third party to such a duel. To help lend it the legal weight it already had. Their duel would be on a small island in the bay near Sverngard, so none might interfere. Gestr, not having been involved in these arguments, would be the most neutral candidate to bear them to that ground.

"Alright then," he exhaled. "I'll speak to him."

* * *

 

"Come in!" Stigandr called as he heard the knock at the door, not even looking up as he was sharpening his sword to make sure it was ready for tomorrow, and just to get his mind off of things.

Perhaps that fact made what he was doing timely, particularly, as he saw the Raider that waited at the doorway.

"Snorri," the Warlord remarked as he looked up. "I didn't expect to see you."

"I ran into our mutual friend," the Raider elaborated as he disarmed himself, taking off the seax on the back of his belt and leaving it by the door. "And we haven't spoken outside the assembly these past few days."

"We haven't," Stigandr reflected as he thought back. They had talked during the assembly, but whereas before they might kick back and share drinks together outside, they stayed apart. They met each other through Runa and Helvar rather than talk directly. "What could we say besides what was already said?"

"How did we come that far?" Snorri took a few more steps in, slowly and with uncharacteristic caution before Stigandr simply pointed towards the table, leaving his own sword behind as he made his way over.

"We are at an impasse," he suggested before glancing out the back window. "Yuina, get in here! Another guest!"

"Coming, master!" her answer came, muffled by going around the wall where she was working, and moments later he heard her footfalls.

"And," the Warlord continued as he sat down across from Snorri, "neither of us want to confront this. We will, but we don't want to."

"To think all it took to divide us like this was a disagreement," the Raider exhaled, shaking his head. "We should be uniting to break out enemies once and for all, not arguing over this."

"How many more must die for Apollyon's demented dream?" he answered before stopping himself, shaking his head. "Bah. We both know we are too stubborn for our own good. Neither of us is going to budge, even if we wished we could."

"If we could, we would have died on the beach of Kaiyo Kabe."

"Hah! True enough!"

The slavegirl came by, with two new horns and the pitcher full of mead, pouring out for both of them and serving the Raider first. Taking his own horn as it was filled, Stigandr held it up.

"To our friendship, no matter what comes?"

The Raider matched his gesture. "To a brother in arms, no matter our disputes!" Yet the twitch in his smile that he tried to put on spoke volumes as both of them drank.

_Is he right?_ Stigandr wondered as he finished the drink. All it had taken to drive such a wedge between them was this offer of peace. Was he so weak that he could be bent like that, only to try and show strength after?

"For what it is worth," Snorri started as they set the empty horns down. "I hold no ill will towards you for this. You want what is best for the clans, to bring us past Apollyon's so-called lesson."

"And so do you, even with your oath. You want the clans strong, strong enough to never be hurt by the likes of Apollyon again."

"And if they are divided in this dispute, it won't matter whether your peace succeeds or fails. That will be the end of us."

Stigandr nodded. He knew what some clans continuing war without regard while others went for peace meant: it meant the Warborn were as fractured as the Iron Legion had been by ceding Ashfeld to the Blackstones. A great champion had already risen once to reunite the clans, Stigandr was not so arrogant to just assume the gods would bless them with another if he and Snorri broke this unity.

"Maybe we should make plans," the Raider continued. "To make sure that this holmgang is all it has to be. If one of us has to die, it damn well better save our people."

"There will always be a few that will disagree no matter what," Stigandr warned as he put a hand to his chin. "Jarl Tyra won't just accept a peace, not after seeing her children starve to death."

"And Chief MacGillivray says rebellion still grows in his ranks," the Raider remarked before a half smile crept across his face. "I told you giving him a seat in the assembly wouldn't calm them."

"Yes, yes, you were right," the Warlord waved his hand as he managed to smile as well. "I still say it motivated them, though."

"Maybe, but that is only as long as we are united. If the Warborn divide, especially like this?"

Stigandr nodded once. "We need to take steps. Snorri, I have no right to ask this of you, but please, ask your followers to trust me. Ask them to accept the holmgang, no matter the outcome. I will do the same for those supporting the peace attempt."

The Raider raised an eyebrow. "You believe so strongly in this peace, yet you'll risk it if I win?"

"If you win, the war goes on anyways. I want peace, but not a peace that destroys us. If we divide, we will be destroyed."

The Raider leaned back in his chair, exhaling before speaking. "I'll talk to them. Whether they will agree…"

"We both know the answer to that," Stigandr finished as the Raider trailed off, shaking his head as he closed his eyes. He knew that all too well. They were a bunch of headstrong and freedom loving individuals at the best of times. When tensions ran high like this?

They fell silent again, leaving them to their thoughts. For Stigandr, it was wondering: his own shock that peace could start by an unlikely meeting organized by Wolfsbane, and the Lawbringer's warning of what the attempt would bring. The Warlord said it would be a worthy tale, but now that he faced the possibility of dying at a friend's hands, or worse having to kill his friend for peace, it left him with new questions.

Could the Warborn accept a peace? What would their demands be? What would be demanded of them? There was only so much that three individuals could consider without the counsel of their fellows, and Stigandr only had to look at the arguments the last three days to understand that peace was a long road. And if the gods were particularly cruel to go with their silence, he would kill a close friend only to find peace impossible still. To kill their people's greatest champion for nothing.

That thought had haunted him the last few days and would continue to do so, but he knew his path. They had to break Apollyon's Age of Wolves in its youth, before generations grew up knowing only war. If peace was going to happen, it was going to happen now.

"It's funny, in a cruel way," Snorri finally said to break the silence. "About ten years ago, I killed the Jarl of my clan by birth to free you. To make you the leader of the Warborn."

"And you left them to save our people," Stigandr answered back, "to save them from the rabid dogs like Ragnar."

"Which Ragnar? It's a very popular name."

"Hah! You've spent a bit too much time with Helvar these past few days, haven't you?"

The Raider shrugged, chuckling himself. "Maybe, I haven't had a lot of other conversation."

And the implication that came with it killed the levity then and there. Still, just because it hung over them like a corpse shroud did not mean it had to be so.

"Then let's rectify that, tonight," Stigandr decided. "As we eat with our fellows, let us forget the challenge that comes tomorrow. Whatever comes, Snorri, let it be a night to remember."

"I would proudly drink to that, Stigandr."


	3. Holmgang

Despite the feast the night before, even with the revelry and merriment like Runa completely flooring anyone who tried to flyte her, there was a truth hanging over it everyone knew. They tried to forget that night, at insistence of those that were the cause, but reminders kept arising.

It was the wait that Snorri always hated. The quiet before the battle begins, before he felt the rush of anger, victory, hatred, and even fear. Yes, fear. A true Raider that possessed the spark of gods had no use of fear. That did not mean they did not feel it, though. Though some called it weakness, what was courage if not facing fear?

Even with all that, his night was sleepless with a different kind of fear. Dying was something he had accepted long ago. The gods were rarely kind to those that earned their attention, after all. But to have to kill a friend, and over something as wretched as that Lord-Warden making a peace overture, trying to blame the crimes she and her people commited onto Apollyon alone?

_Yet Stigandr fights for us all,_ he noted as he glanced towards the Warlord at the other end of the boat. It was a small ship, unworthy of the open sea by its size, with Gestr at the helm and assisted by one of Stigandr's thralls. With the morning's gentle current, the boat barely rocked as they were carried to their battleground.

Exhaling, Snorri looked back towards the dock in the sound that was propped next to Sverngard. He could still make out Runa wearing her winged helmet, and Helvar standing with both his of-age daughters, watching with the rest of the clan leaders and countless other warriors. The two comrades had said their farewells to both of them - no one knew who would triumph.

Both were legendary in their own way, fierce warriors. And for all the bouts they had done during the winters to keep their skills up and for the fun of it, no clear superior had arisen. Sometimes Stigandr would bash him silly, other times Snorri floored him despite the shield. And sometimes they both ended up face down on the floor needing more than mead to get back to their senses. Norse parties tended to end in bruises, though reasons could… vary.

This was no fistfight or ego brawl though: this was the holmgang. Trial by combat where two men enter the battle and only one, the righteous, walks away. Once they stepped onto the island, the only way they were leaving was as the victor, as the vanquished, or a coward soon to be declared an outlaw. That gave it certainty, and they would need as much as they could gather once it was over.

"We are here, I can go no further," Gestr suddenly said as the boat came to a stop, and a rather smooth one too as it ran against the shore. "Once you step upon this island, you two are sworn enemies. If either of you is not certain, now is the time to hesitate."

Stigandr nodded, looking up from the four shields he had brought to the Raider. "Snorri, I have no wish to fight you, but our people must be better than this. We must prove Apollyon wrong."

"We shall, but not to the tune of her pet minions," Snorri answered as he grabbed his dane axe just below the head. "We need you in the battles to come, Stigandr. Please, let us continue to fight as one!"

"I wish we could," the Warlord shook his head before glancing to the overcast sky. "May Odin receive the defeated with such great revelry that even distant shores hear it."

"Then we shall say no more," the Raider agreed, casting aside his thin fur coat so his chest was bared, leaping off the boat and landing with a half crouch. He nodded to Stigandr as he rose back up, then made his way to the other end of the island, giving the Warlord time to move his shields off the boat.

Traditionally, both contestants would bring three shields to the duel as they were expected to be repeatedly broken in such an intense battle. Yet many satisfied themselves with just their normal weapons, if only because they could not afford more. Stigandr, with the wealth to afford it and relying on such in battle, decided to bring four: his shield as he usually brought, and three new ones from Sverngard's armory. He was going to need every one of them with the weapon he was against.

Snorri chose not to bring a shield to this island. While some of his fellow Raiders shunned them as armor, others would swear by them as the best companion to smaller weapons. Snorri took a middle ground - while he would pick up a shield if needed, most of the time he refused to use one. His dane axe needed both hands to use effectively, and wearing one's shield on their back with no intent to use it as a weapon was wearing armor under another name. And in this battle, he had to bring every bit of mastery he had, from fighting to using the island.

Not that there was much to use. It rose up in the middle of the sound, with no real features. The odd rock, but nothing that would particularly interfere with the battle. He could see the boat on the other side, but once Stigandr was ready they would meet in the center, fully visible to all gazing at the island. A direct contest of skill and endurance: who would be the first to land a killing blow?

Looking up into the sky, Snorri took a step back as he noticed two ravens circling the sky. Odin's gaze was upon this duel.

"Snorri, I am ready!" Stigandr called from the other side. The Raider gripped his dane axe, looking at the weapon he was soon to stain with the blood of a friend. One more crime he would make the Legions pay for when the ferocious clans of the Warborn took up their axes for their families once more.

_It is now or never,_ he understood as he took a deep breath. "Then come, my brother in arms! The All-Father watches us: to battle!"

* * *

 

Charging ahead, the Warlord put his faith in the wood around his arm just as his enemy trusted raw strength. Neither of them were served as they crashed into each other in the middle, their momentum striking each other and sending them backwards the way they came.

Staggering as he recovered, Stigandr looked up and saw that his opponent had done the same. Snorri had not taken any cuts in the crash as the Warlord had hoped, but this was just the opening. Much as he hated it, it was finally time for him to exploit the weaknesses he had seen.

Raiders were legendary for good reason, but as the weight of maille and gambeson beneath pressed against his shoulders and waist, Stigandr knew how he had to win. He knew that in raw power, none were stronger than Snorri Sindrison. But with no armor, all Stigandr had to do was draw enough blood and his foe would weaken. Blood loss was a slow but certain killer, especially when they flailed around fighting each other.

"Well then," Stigandr remarked as he put the strategist's assessment aside, "no one is being carried away today."

"Hah!" Snorri backed back. "We're short a good ledge!"

Stigandr shrugged, but moved forward again. He did not move nearly as aggressively as he had opened the holmgang with, and Snorri also edged closer. He had to keep the battle close and personal - ideally forcing Snorri to ditch his axe in favor of the seax on his belt. Give Snorri room, and he could use the dane axe in its full glory. But if Stigandr could restrict the fight, he had the advantage.

The Raider had no intention of letting that happen, swinging his axe around. He whiffed entirely, but it was intentional: Stigandr had seen it and even faced it before as the second swing had far more momentum. Shifting his shield and sword to the left, he readied himself to catch-

Then the Raider instead leapt up, pommel of the axe coming right for his face. Stigandr took it in the helmet, the strike hitting the snout of the polar bear he wore on his head and leaving his head ringing before the Raider went for his full swing before pulling it.

Stigandr held his guard, waiting to receive despite his ringing head. The Raider tried to strike with his left hand rather than the axe, but Stigandr broke the attempted grapple and followed up by trying to get a quick slice in.

The blow hit Snorri's side, but Stigandr didn't get enough to do more than cut cloth. It might have left a cut, but it was not deep enough to be a problem. He withdrew his sword, shield at the ready for the expected counterattack, deflecting the axe blow with his shield as they both backed off.

_Not what I needed,_ the Warlord noted as he took a moment to evaluate how Snorri took the hit, _but it is the strategy. Wear him down, piece by piece._

The Raider was perfectly fine though, rolling his neck before charging again, wide and powerful swings. Stigandr held his guard, trying to take them with the shield at angles so the heavy axe did not fully embed into it. Controlling Snorri's weapon would be useful, but not if the shield broke catching the blow.

Which, as a fourth and even more powerful swing came in as they found their rhythm, was exactly what the Raider wanted. The blow caught the shield and Stigandr felt the force rush up his arm, only to realize that he only had _half_ a shield left after that blow was pulled out of the shield.

"Hah!" the Raider laughed as he went for one more swing, only for it to be caught by Stigandr's sword and deflected to the side.

In the moment after, he had to make a choice: try to attack while the Raider was regaining his footing, or use the opportunity to get a new shield. A half glance at the wrecked wood in his grip told him what to do. He rolled out of the way, dropping the broken shield and running to the next one.

Snorri followed, swinging his axe as the Warlord grabbed his second shield by the handle within the boss and rolling as he did to avoid the axe blow. Then he charged, shield first, into the Raider's side as he was in the recovery of the swing, leaving the Raider on the ground when he came to a halt.

He struck quickly, catching the Raider's back as he rolled clear. It was not a deep wound, but he heard Snorri cry out as a cut ran along his left shoulder. It was not deep, but it would definitely hurt, especially now that the dirt had gotten into it. Sweat, which the Warlord already felt forming beneath his many layers, would only make it worse.

"Is this your plan?" the Raider demanded as he rolled his other shoulder. "To kill me with bug bites?"

"Alas, I am short a swamp," he answered back before inhaling to get more fresh air into him.

The Raider growled, probably since he had the same memories that Stigandr was recalling: the infected wounds the Raider had after Kaiyo Kabe. Snorri had been lucky enough to survive, but far too many died of infection in the march to Koto - once they found a path. But dying of an infection in the middle of battle was unlikely, and not because that was just insulting. This was going to be settled by steel - anything else would be afterwards.

So he attacked again, and the two went at it in a constant back and forth with no quarter asked nor given.

* * *

 

Back at the shoreline, the Warborn people waited. They had watched the start of the duel in total silence, both to not miss what would happen and out of respect for those fighting.

But as it went on, slowly discussion began. It started small, like Runa pointing out to Helvar that the ravens that had eyed the fight at the start had flown off to the woods on the far side of the shore, before returning to silence. As the duel went on, though, more and more the crowd began to talk. They avoided topics like the overcast day and how it felt like it was about to rain, but asked of the future, like Chief MacGillivray asking who would take Stigandr's place if he fell.

"I hate waiting," Helvar finally muttered as he rubbed his hands together. "Especially for this."

"Watching friends battle should never be easy," Runa agreed as she glanced to him. The two had stood at the end of the docks, along with the other leaders of the clans, but as some of them began to sit on the edge or start pacing, the Valkyrie remained still.

"Especially…" the Berserker stopped, shaking his head. _Especially since we'll never look at whoever lives the same again,_ he silently added. Whoever won, did so by killing the other. Even though it was in the open and honorable, that would hardly soften the blow.

That all he could do was wait only made it worse. It was not his fight, even if he wished he and Runa could just take a boat over there, break it up, and patch it over until it was something they laughed about while drunk.

"Because they fight over a coward's offer?" the Valkyrie offered, catching Helvar as he was lost in his thoughts.

"Eh, I wouldn't say coward, but…" he shrugged. "I love a good fight, but the thought of fighting for Apollyon's scheme?"

Runa snorted. "Hardly. The Legions starved our people, countless were denied Valhalla by starvation. You know for whose glory I fight."

He nodded once. Runa was new to the role of Valkyrie when Snorri first joined them after Stigandr's capture, but she had become one because of those that died of famine. To fight for those that Apollyon condemned to a slow and ignoble death in the winter and beyond, and to deliver that glory in her own violent death.

_The death one of my friends faces today,_ he realized as he looked out, and had to swallow hard to keep his throat open. Once more, Warborn fought each other. But this time it was not a matter of survival, which many clans were forced to do even if they had not indulged in the cruelty of the Bearclaws. This was not even a matter of honor: the entire holmgang was held from tears only by stoic acceptance. It was a question so simple: to try a likely pointless peace attempt, or just keep fighting?

Exhaling again and twitching, all the Berserker could do was wait and wonder why the gods wrote fate to be so cruel to their champions.

A cruelty that only grew greater as Stigandr's available shields dwindled.

* * *

 

The spark of gods. The thing that separated true Raiders from the countless wannabes that died to the first arrow that found its mark on their unprotected flesh. There had been a time where Snorri had questioned it, where he wondered if that was truth or if it was the skalds talking up their heroes. He was mortal - he had felt the keen sting of steel and the bite of flint, and could still die at any time.

But then he began to survive wounds that even he thought should have killed him. An crossbow bolt that left him with an infection. Wounds from fighting another would-be Raider from his clan who perhaps had the potential, if not for her death at his hands. He should have been dead time and again from his lack of armor leaving him open to painful wounds, but he survived.

Maybe he was just absurdly tolerant of pain. Maybe he was just lucky enough to either know a good healer or had become enough of a sawbones to patch himself up. Or, as he now believed, his fate truly belonged to the gods and they were not done with his life.

And that fact gave him confidence as he shattered the third of Stigandr's shields with a heavy blow, catching the shield and causing it to split along the seams as he broke the rim. The metal disfigured, opening up like skin cut by a sword, and the axe struck the cheese glue holding the wooden planks together otherwise. Half of the shield bent forward, the rest in the other direction, barely holding on by the boss.

"Odin's b-" Stigandr cut himself off as he threw himself to the side, avoiding the Raider's follow up attack. He managed to let go of the now broken shield, which clattered to the ground and broke completely in half, the planks snapping near the metal boss, and grabbed his last one.

"You can't win!" Snorri snarled as his axe landed in the dirt, narrowly missing. He tugged it out, but by that point the Warlord had recovered and got back into his fighting stance. "For all your cuts, I still stand!"

"For how long?" Stigandr shot back, grimacing. Both of them had traded blows. Stigandr had taken fewer than Snorri had, and those he suffered had been almost wholly mitigated by his armor. But he was tiring - his shield use was getting sloppier, and every blow the Raider landed exhausted the Warlord's shield arm further.

But Stigandr had gained his ground, even if adrenaline and Thor's fury kept it from stopping him. Snorri sported several cuts across his body - nothing fatal or disemboweling, but once the battle was over the part of him that had not given to a blood rage knew the comedown from this was going to be worse than fighting the likes of Siv, Fujikiyo, Tozen, or his more embarrassing encounters with the Lord-Warden and Emperor's Champion.

"More than long enough!" he answered as he moved forward again. Stigandr had gotten good at predicting his attacks on the shield, Stigandr's greatest defense and biggest target, so now it was time to exploit the exhaustion.

The Raider went high - not a tap but a quick swing of the axe, then he used the momentum to feint one way. Stigandr stopped the first strike, which slowed down the second enough for him to bring his shield in tight and then strike forward with his sword as the second was stopped.

The quick blow caused Snorri to snarl as it cut across his left leg - where he already had a growing collection of cuts - but this one went deeper than most. Stigandr tried to capitalize on it with another swing, a powerful overhead one that Snorri knew better than to try and stop if he couldn't catch it with his axe.

He dodged to the side, mostly avoiding it but he did so where the ground began to dip away to his right from the center of the island. He landed hard on his left foot first, and that shot pain up through his whole body and down to his foot, causing a stumble until he landed his right foot as well and took a few steps to recover.

Stigandr saw it and leapt forward, bringing sword and shield down together. The Raider raised his axe to catch both with the shaft…

* * *

 

Time was a funny thing in battle. A fight could go on until the crows grew bored of waiting for free meat, but was decided in only a few seconds. Yet when the body felt as if Thor channeled lighting through it, every second was longer. That only grew worse the longer the battle drew on as exhaustion did its work.

Even as he felt his body screaming for a respite, Stigandr pushed it on. To get that one blow he needed to win this, the decisive blow he needed when Snorri proved too tough to whittle down.

The battle was not over, but the tide had changed dramatically. The leaping strike had come down, and cracked open the center of Snorri's dane axe. Where once he had a single deadly weapon, now the half-naked warrior had the axe head in his left hand and a stick with a pommel on the other.

Snorri did not escape totally unscatched, taking the rim of the Warlord's shield to his right - and unfortunately uninjured - shoulder. That knocked him back, and away from easy reach for a follow up swing once Stigandr recovered from the follow-through.

But as he looked up from it, he saw Snorri's jaw dropping as he stared at his weapon.

"Now it's over!" the Warlord declared as he pointed his sword forward.

"No," the Raider shook his head as he tossed the pieces of his weapon to the other hand. "Now it has just begun!"

Snorri charged with a defiant bellow, wielding his broken weapon like he had a hatchet and a… could he call it a blunt knife? Stigandr had to ignore that as the halved axe came down. He caught it with the shield, the weapon biting into his arm through the wood. It was only pain of impact thanks to an arm guard, and Stigandr turned to pull the axe out of Snorri's hands.

An attempted strike with his own sword was stopped as the Raider not only caught it with the other half but pushed his sword to the side. And with one hand free, Snorri's hand reached for the back of his belt.

_The seax!_ Stigandr's whole body tensed as he tried to bring his shield arm back with the axe embedded. All he did was clock the Raider in the helmet with the rim, but not before the blade was shoved forward and stuck.

Gasping, Stigandr felt a chill as the blade was lodged into his chest. As Snorri rolled with the blow he took, Stigandr looked down at the blade. _His_ blade, a seax he had given the Raider as a gift to replace the one of bone he had broken stabbing Siv!

"Gods," he muttered as he forced himself to ignore the bleeding chest wound for now - like pulling out an arrow, all ripping it out would do was make it worse. He did not even want to know how much blood had already spilled. "My own," a sharp inhale, "gift?"

Snorri had recovered, now with only what amounted to a stick with a bit of metal, and he managed only the start of a shrug before his shoulders sagged down. Then they both charged - this had to end _now_.

Stigandr charged shield first, and despite the chest wound he managed to beat the Raider's momentum, charging forward towards the edge of the island. It was not a large one, and they had fought in circles around it. Now they came to an edge, where the gentle current was creeping upon a broken half of Stigandr's first shield. The Warlord's momentum bled out, and Snorri fell onto his backside, head landing where the water met the shore with a splash.

And bringing his sword around, Stigandr was ready to gut his battle brother like so many fish prepared for market. Down to the gaping shock in the Raider's face as in that instant his jaw dropped with wide eyes and his right hand held out - all before either could think.

_Gut my battle brother…_

_Gut my… my brother?_

Stigandr still struck, but for one moment he hesitated at the thought. Hesitated seeing a man he knew, trusted, fought with - dare he say loved as the siblings his parents never gave him?

It only took a moment.

Snorri had reached out with his left hand, grabbing the half broken shield and swinging it. Stigandr took the blow to the right side, knocked over in a daze with his grip dangerously loose around his sword. Snorri capitalized on that, smacking his arm again with the shield.

Though he lost his sword, Stigandr still had a fully working shield, if one with an axe embedded into it. An axe that the Raider grapped and tugged.

Pulled forward, Stigandr could not do anything but scream as Snorri used the broken planks of the shield as a makeshift shiv and smashed it against his stomach. Though Snorri had maille, one plank managed to get where the seax was, knocking it out and the new blow plunged even deeper.

All of Stigandr's breath left him, an inhaled suck that left him with nothing as he felt his grip loosen from his shield… and a Raider above him with the broken half of a dane axe.

The two stared at each other, panting heavily as Stigandr felt his veins turned to ice yet also burning like Sverngard had a decade before. All he could do was stare, stare at a face that betrayed everything: tears finally manifesting as stoic acceptance was lost to exhaustion.

Then he swung the axe again, catching Stigandr by his stomach. By this point the Warlord had nothing left as he was hurled around by the strike, landing past the shoreline with a splash. A fresh sting struck his ripped wide wounds, and as his head fell beneath the water his vision went blurry even as it blackened.

But even then, he could see the blood in the water.

_His_ blood in the water.

* * *

 

That was Stigandr's blood.

_Thor's hammer that was Stigandr's blood!_

Yet even as the Great Raider's mind raged, even as he felt like he had to puke at the sight before him, even as he felt every cut across his body and every bruise he had sustained, Snorri did nothing but stare.

He had done it. He had won.

_I have just killed my brother!_

No, not his brother by blood, but didn't those wine-drinking excuses for priests tell some proverb about a covenant's blood being greater than the womb's water? Just not the water with Stigandr's blood in it - _gods I just killed Stigandr!_

He could see the Jarl's last visage, his face twisting even as his eyes remained open like gates struck by an oversized ram. One hand reaching out, desperately groping even as he was dying-

A sword.

Stigandr's sword - _Stigandr needed his sword!_

Not even thinking, the Raider's head turned faster than it could handle, his sight turning into a whirl of color, but he could still see what he needed before that. Kneeling down, vision straightening even as it remained blurry, he picked up the bloody weapon by the stained blade - _my blood_ , a distant echo of conscious thought noted - and walked to the water's edge.

Kneeling, his wounded legs adding to the water's red hue, he placed the blade in Stigandr's outstretched hand, and with his other wrapped the Warlord's fingers around it, pressing it against his chest. Odin and Freya would know who to call, even if the ravens shirked their duty.

Staring into the sky, he managed a faint smile as he saw one raven looking down as it flew high overhead. It had been witnessed. It had been as intended. A Viking's fate had been decided by the gods, just as it was meant to be. Right?

Chest heaving as his tired body brought in fresh air and tried to expel exhaustion, soaked more by sweat than the waters he knelt in, Snorri Sindrison only had one thing to shout before he himself lost consciousness, a cry that his enemies were sick of hearing.

He called to Valhalla.


	4. Aftermath

There were many preparations to make for the death of a Viking.

For the common farmers and townsfolk - the karls - the preparations were simple. Hollow out a tree trunk or make a wooden box, dress the deceased in their best clothes, and stick them into a hole in the ground with anything that would accompany them to the afterlife. Some were burned on a pyre instead, but that took more wood than making a coffin. Thralls did not even rate that, unless their master felt they deserved that dignity, instead just being dumped into the ground with whatever wasn't pulled off of their corpses.

As you moved on to their nobles, from legend and valor to merchant's wealth, it became more involved as they often had large inheritances to pass on. Then it became a balance: to leave them what they deserved to have whether it was to Valhalla or Niflheim, while giving the heirs their due. Maybe it would be burned first before the earth was piled atop the ashes, but it did not have to be.

But this was the funeral of one of the greatest warriors and leaders of the Warborn. No mere hole in the ground or ash pit would do no matter the rune stone placed above. For the greatest warriors, the greatest of Vikings, for the architect of the Great Raid, only the most grand would do.

Exhaling as she looked at the ship chosen from a bluff overlooking the harbor, Runa wondered if the gods had made another foolish bet with Loki. Of the ships they had, the one that was chosen was none other than the _War Dragon_ , a ship that she was deeply familiar with. A ship that she had spent many voyages on, but not the one that made it the irony of its last voyage.

"I remember this ship," Helvar remarked as he was standing next to her. "The first one we built in Odingard."

"The ship that led our attack," she answered as she watched the slaves laboring to bring it ashore, rolling it over wooden logs that were constantly being moved to the front to keep it going as others pulled. "The ship that led the Great Raid."

"Stigandr's own flagship." Shoulders sagging as he huffed, the Berserker shook his head again. "Gods damn it all. There's no finer ship for his pyre, but…" a growl - more of a bestial scream - cut that off.

Runa held her silence. She and Helvar had taken another boat when they saw both champions collapse. By the time their rowing brought them there, Gestr had pulled Snorri from the water and had begun bandaging him, while Yuina pulled her master's corpse to dry land. Tears and howls had echoed through the valley as the news spread. Even now, days later, it was not uncommon for the merriment in the mead hall to give way to grief.

But one troubling question remained: the Great Raider had won, so their path appeared clear, but what if he did not wake up? So far, the various Jarls had agreed to wait, but already she knew they were splitting. They had expected one clear victor to inspire them, not the loss of _two_ greats at once.

" _A Raider's fate is plaything of the gods,"_ she had told Chief MacGillivray as he asked what could be done, which left him to leave with a huff and muttering in his own language as he did.

"Helvar," she finally said as his latest burst subsided, "if you want to talk, you know I will hear you."

"I know, but…" he exhaled. "You remember what I said when we busted open Skalloborg? When he asked what took so long?"

"You remarked on finding Vikings that Stigandr hadn't pissed off."

"Yeah. It was a raid to some prissy castle in Ashfeld's south, past Harrowgate. Westhole, or something. Took it from some weaklings in grey cloaks, wintered there… we all were ready to dig in. Call it home, enjoy all the targets around us."

Runa had never heard this story before, only rumors and remarks about Stigandr ditching a good haul. "Stigandr had you leave?"

"He did. Said that we couldn't hold the fort, not with Harrowgate in the way. We weren't even supposed to go that far south anyways - it was supposed to be a quick raid out of Savona." He shrugged. "Caravans can run surprisingly fast."

"So how did you end up taking a castle?"

"Oh, an early snowstorm hit and we saw it was undermanned. If they couldn't guard it, why not?"

Runa scoffed. Business as usual for the Warborn. "But neither could you, once winter ended."

"Exactly. He told us that if we stayed, we would die, and die pointlessly. We could do that, or we could march our loot back home and enrich our families, to keep them alive and fight for them later. Everyone hated him for it, but they followed. We'd kill each other otherwise," he added when she tilted her head at him again.

"And they spread rumors about it."

"Pretty much, we used to laugh about how he was the most hated Warlord in Valkenheim. Now?" Helvar looked around before shaking his head. "Now he's…"

"Father! Father!"

A young cry interrupted as both turned to see a young girl running towards them, the hem of her dress brushing against the grass.

"Brynja?" Helvar asked as he heard his daughter's voice, turning and half kneeling to catch the nine year old girl as she almost crashed into him. "What is it? I told you to watch-"

"He's awake! Uncle Snorri's awake!"

Neither of the two needed to hear any more before they were running back to the town, Helvar propping his child over his shoulder to carry her as he did.

* * *

 

Some things got easier the more they happened. Swinging an axe, running a mile, sailing a ship through a dangerous coastline, practice made perfect. Not so much for other things, and waking up from a healing coma was one of those.

And for a Raider, Snorri had to wonder if he woke up from too many of the damn things. Then again, if he was conscious enough to think that… now that he thought about it, he _had_ seen some light earlier. Had he awoke only to fall asleep?

"Ah, the Great Raider stirs."

Perhaps he wrongly expected someone else, but as he blinked Snorri saw the familiar old man in grey. "Gestr. What happened?"

"You won," the wise man answered as he was sitting on the side of the bed, resting a hand against the Raider's heart before moving on to trace countless bandages tied down across his body. "But your last scream to Valhalla was too much, and you collapsed. Fortunately, your head landed above the water."

Snorri nodded faintly as he considered it. "Did I lose anything?"

"Not today, though I would watch the leg." A hand ran along his left through the bedsheet. "It is not infected, but there are muscles there that would cripple you, even if not fully cut." He heard footsteps and Gestr turned to speak to someone else. "Go tell your father that he is awake!"

"Father?" the Raider asked as he frowned.

"One of Helvar's younger daughters - she was asked to watch you as he and Runa dealt with matters."

He tried to chuckle, only for intense pain in his lungs to stop that motion short and he moved a hand - just as bandaged as the rest of him - over his stomach.

"Easy, your body has been through quite the ordeal. Yet the spark given to you has led you far, and continues to do so."

"And what would it be used for?"

A thin and wiry smile was his only response, and then the wise man busied himself towards talking him through his injuries and how to handle them since he would walk again within the day. And advice to avoid conflict for a short time, even though it was given with admitted hopelessness.

Yet as the old man left him to get rest as he waited for his friends, it left Snorri to his thoughts. First Siv, now Stigandr? Twice now he had killed those he once called the closest of friends. At least with Siv, he had left her for some time first! But Stigandr…

_We both knew what was coming,_ he tried to tell himself, _the Warborn would split into civil war if we didn't answer this firmly._

And suddenly, his mind wandered to the past. To a meeting with a legend when he was but a boy, a question posed to him.

"Snorri, you're awake!"

The thought was interrupted as he heard her voice. "Runa!" He laughed as he saw her abandon her stoic nature and simply run up to hug him - and not gently, leaving him to wince from the pain in his ribs. "Careful, mind the- _ow_!"

"Sorry," she admitted as she let go, looking down at his chest before shaking her head and stepping back, trying to put on her stoic demeanor yet again.

At the door, putting one of his younger children down, was the one that Snorri was most worried about.

"Helvar," the Raider said. "It's…"

"You don't have to say anything," the Berserker insisted. "Fate was carved in stone long ago."

Snorri decided to take the hint and drop it. "Well, I think Runa missed a spot - think your little girl can hug any harder?"

"Hah! Don't tempt her, she'd crush the life right outta you!" the Berserker chuckled, if weakly, all as his daughter frowned looking between her father and her honorary uncle.

"Perhaps tomorrow," he shrugged. "Anyways, it's good to see both of you. Gestr told me about the injuries, but what about the rest?" He hesitated a moment before elaborating. "What about Stigandr? When do we honor him?"

The two glanced at each other, and then set to the long task of explaining what he had missed.

* * *

 

They spent the next hour or so bringing him up to speed - he would need to address the assembly as the new leader of the Warborn Clans, and he had to do it soon. So he decided it was best to do it that night, to get it over with. If he couldn't stand by then, so be it: he could deliver a speech from a chair if he had to. Though no feast had been planned, he ordered that they prepare what could be done on short notice. If nothing else, enough mead for a proper toast even if the full honors would wait for the funeral feast being provisioned.

Though the position was now his, Snorri had chosen to stay in his usual seat, to leave Stigandr's high backed throne empty. He simply moved his chair next to Stigandr's, to remain seated as thralls brought in tables and food alike. The Jarls (and Chief MacGillivray) came in steadily, and as they took their places they stemmed their immediate hunger on warm goat milk and dried fruit taken - by force, of course - from a samurai ship that dared hug the Myre's coast hoping for a quick delivery rather than hide in the swamp.

Once they were all assembled, though, Snorri cleared his throat and called one word: "Silence!"

The hall fell quiet, and remaining in his seat the Raider looked to them, then he began.

"I take no pride in my victory, not even that of knowing I triumphed over one of the greatest Warlords that the gods saw fit to bless us with. He fought for us all, to save us from what he mistakenly thought to be our doom."

A few murmurs, but nothing more than either an assent or a silent disagreement.

"I know many of you opposed his proposal as I did, but know this: I will accept no insult to what he fought for. Disagree with why he fought if you wish, but any that mocks him for that will join him… if they can keep their dignity in the blood eagle, that is."

That shut the entire hall up. He caught a glimpse of Gestr shaking his head and Runa folding her arms - perhaps he had been too casual with the threat, but Snorri had a point to make.

"Tonight we must look to our bonds, for tomorrow we deliver a legend to history. Know that I swear to see to it that his story is carved in stone for all to remember, even if I must hammer and chisel every word myself!"

And here, the moment of truth, the Raider reached his hands to the table, grabbing it and using it as leverage. His legs were not quite ready, but if he could stand he could lean against the table and use its weight to support him. He rose slowly, partially to make sure he did not stumble and partially for effect. And once at his full height, he picked up his drinking horn from the stand and held it up. Others followed suit, a few pouring into each other's when there was not enough: they all knew a toast when it came.

"Let us all call his name, so that they hear it even in Valhalla! To Stigandr?!"

" _To Stigandr!"_

They all drank. It was but one of many toasts already given and soon to come, and once the drink finished the Raider edged himself back down to his seat, all eyes remaining upon him.

"Though the holmgang has decided the course of this assembly, tonight I will have no talk of the war. Tonight, we are here as brothers and sisters of the same shield wall! Reaffirm that bond with what meagre hospitality I could provide," he allowed himself to grin, enabling a ripple of chuckles throughout the hall, "and share the legends that have gone by us as we prepare. Tomorrow, we honor the passing of a Viking in the only proper way!"

With that, he leaned back in the chair and allowed himself to sag, to show that he had finished. Conversation returned to the hall, and Snorri turned to his right, where Helvar and Runa both sat.

"Not the speech they expected," Runa noted with a faint hint of a smile.

"That comes tomorrow, where it belongs," the Raider growled back as he considered what he would say. "Tonight, I want them to know I live and will lead. That I will be there to honor Stigandr's passing."

"We all will," Helvar inhaled. "Which means we should discuss a few details. While you were unconscious, one of Stigandr's thralls fled."

"The last one from Koto?"

"The same. Runa hunted her down," the Berserker nodded towards the Valkyrie. "She's alive, if a little bruised."

"That's fine," Snorri decided as he stopped just short of sipping a bit more mead. "We will skip the usual ceremonies, since Stigandr spared his thralls those indignities. We will simply have her strangled."

"With the painkiller?"

He shook his head at Runa's question. "No, she fled her fate."

"I am interested to see how you will mete out justice then, _Jarl_ Snorri."

He knew that title would be applied to him at some point, but to hear it like this, from Runa as she then began consuming what remained in the horn she drank from?

Even if his own mind had not been weighed by it, having it brought up like that left the Raider silent even as those assembled continued to eat and talk. And even when a few arm wrestling contests started or they brought out targets for axe throwing - something Helvar jumped right onto.

"You usually join him," Runa remarked as Helvar had left his empty mead horn behind.

"I am injured," he pointed out.

"You legs more than your arms, and your throwing arm was mostly unharmed," the Valkyrie retorted as she narrowed her gaze. "And you're usually far more joyful in these parties."

"Maybe it's because I just killed Stigandr?" he snapped, slamming both fists against the table despite the pain that shot up his bruised wrists. Luckily, the rest of the hall didn't notice, leaving the two to their discussion.

"You handled killing Siv well enough."

"I also had something to focus on," he pointed out. "The attack on Odingard. And you didn't see me at night."

"You do not have to stay here," she pointed out. "If you need to be alone, or with someone else, go. You did what you needed to do."

She was right, and Snorri had to admit she was right. He really did not want to be with the crowd, but he could not push his friends away either.

"I'll stay, at least a little longer," he answered as Helvar threw perfectly into the bullseye of the first target. "But you're right, I just need rest, and tomorrow I have much to do."

"I can keep an eye on things if you need me to," she offered. "I've had time. You haven't."

"Thank you, Runa."

* * *

 

_The castle-city would fall._

_That was his promise, the promise he had made to call on so many young warriors. Marauders had flocked to his horde by name alone, along with veteran warriors eager to further their legends and get their fill of loot. They had broken the outer defenses with pitiful ease, their ram breaking down the first gate and it was a straight shot forward. Other warriors cleared out what passed for towers as he led the ram through the center line._

_As he caught a Shinobi on his axe and hurled him into the nearby wall, he could see their next obstacle: a wall of enemy pikemen - yari ashigaru, conscripts at that - blocking their approach. The commander of that unit was a Shugoki with a horned mask. Laughing, he turned towards the Valkyrie that had accompanied him and she held up a hand, signaling for the advancing shield wall to release a volley._

_That rain of throwing axes, javelins, and knives went forward as archers taking a position above shot the opposing pikemen. The shieldless foes were broken, even as their own archers on the bridge above had their arrows stopped by the shields of the advancing force. And as the enemy broke, the Raider charged ahead._

_The Shugoki had managed to survive even as weapons stuck out of his arms and armor, but his stance had been broken. Broken enough that no amount of lard was going to stop the Raider from carrying him into a nearby wall, kneeing him in the chin, and splitting his head open with his axe._

_Tugging his axe out with a laugh, he turned to his comrades as they pushed ahead with a bellowing chant. The second gate was ahead, other warriors would take the roof and strip it of defenses. All they had to do was kick it down with the ram. Nothing could break through their attack!_

_But as he strode towards forward, he heard it. A loud thud as a man encased head to toe in plate armor dropped down from the wall to the right, picking up his poleaxe as he rose. The Lawbringer - no, not any Lawbringer. He recognized the Lawbringer by the flowery pattern engraved on his breastplate and the dragon on his poleaxe. What was he doing here?!_

_Especially as he turned and saw a Kensei stride out from the steps to the left, past a burning and makeshift bunker that once held a ballista. How could he not recognize the giant butterfly on her helmet or the long curved nodachi she wielded? Why was she in the frontline rather than cowering deeper in the fortress like emperors did? And why were Iron Legion soldiers streaming up from the sides to support them?_

_He heard another rustle of plate and turned, seeing a serrated black blade coming towards his face before it suddenly stopped. But it was not his dane axe that had stopped the blow - he could see it raised as well, too low to catch it before his helmet was cleaved in two._

_But as he caught his lost breath, the Raider blinked as he saw just who had leapt at him._

" _Apollyon."_

_The black armored knight pulled her sword back, and the Raider let his axe fall down to a neutral position about his waist, and she… nodded?_

" _What are you doing here?" he demanded._

" _I have come to congratulate you, Sindri's son," the long dead monster answered, and as she did he realized that the entire place had chilled. From another rainy evening of the Myre to a cold winter day that cut through even the fur jacket that a moment before he had not been wearing._

" _For what?" he demanded. "For my triumph?"_

" _For claiming your birthright," she answered as she turned, walking him through the frozen battle._

_As they walked up the stairs they passed a ronin with two swords being disemboweled by a Highlander as they fought over that passage. At the top, a Shaman's head popped off by the Conqueror that guarded the flank several samurai using their bows. Moving back along their path of advance, a wave of marauders cut down by an arrow storm from deeper in the fortress. On the bridge, the Raider could just barely see the mask and habit of a Peacekeeper staring up from the epicenter of the explosion engulfing it and the Norse archers that took it._

_Dropping down without issue to the main road, the snow vanished into a bright day and the ram behind them burned. Yet they went ahead, back along its path, a road whose cobblestones were now paved over by corpses. Blood glistened in the noon sun as men and women alike lay in the ground, staring blankly whether at sky, ground, or whatever they happened to be looking at as they slumped against broken barricades or other corpses._

" _War is your nature, is it not?" Apollyon asked as she stopped them past the broken gate, by still burning corpses victim of the now dormant cauldron above. She turned, holding her arms out to take in the whole vista of the blood soaked city._

" _We are Warborn," he growled as he stared at her, "and we will take what is ours."_

" _So you have, and so you will continue to do so, but you no longer face sheep cowering at your approach, but wolves ready to fight."_

_His hands clenched into fists. "Is your lone god so lax in punishing monsters that you are free to haunt me?!"_

" _What makes you think He has anything to do with this?" she asked as she held her arms out. "Accept your desires, of war, bloody glory, and the plunder of vanquished cities."_

" _Why would we reject what is ours, crone?"_

_She nodded once, vanishing into mist._

_And from that mist came the charge of a Lawbringer - the same as before. The lowered spike of his poleaxe caught the Raider, and the momentum ran him into a wall. As he was staggered by the impact, the Kensei leapt up from behind, her nodachi spinning as it came down on his head-_

* * *

 

Waking drenched in cold sweat and panting, he did not catapult upright, but his senses were all alert. He reached down, searching for fresh wounds. There were none, just those that Stigandr had left on him and even older scars that were little more than mementos. Snorri Sindrison was fine - his body had not been endangered.

But as he looked towards the end of his hall, he could see night beginning to fade through the shutters. It was still dark, but he could see shadows well enough to not need to grope around. Not that he was even sure he needed to - reaching to his bedside, he found the jug of water and drank from it directly. Gestr had been clear: if in doubt, at least get some water into him to chill any growing fevers.

That did not answer his fear, though. Was that merely a nightmare now that he had time to think about what had passed, or had it been something more? Was it an attack by the enemy Stigandr warned him of? Or was it his own fear that, deep down, he had known the Warlord was right?

Exhaling, he knew he was not going to go back to sleep. His muscles were too tense and his spine tingling with anticipation. In but a few hours, there would be a funeral for a Viking. A funeral he would preside over. But before that, he had to understand what he had seen. What he had done.

"I killed him," he muttered to himself as his mind turned to the memory his nightmare had spared him of, the bloody body in the water. "And for what?"

The vision. It was all in the _vision_ \- some of it was just filler, like the violent battle. But Apollyon had spoke to him - or at least what he thought she would say? He could not be sure. And before that, he saw the usurper empress and Asmodai uniting forces against their assault. Was Stigandr right, was the war going to consume them and leave Apollyon laughing?

No, that was the coward's way out. No, it was the _trickery_ of the Legions and Chosen, their scheme against the might of the Warborn! The Samurai were dying out, their daimyo restless as Ayu commanded none of the past emperor's legitimacy! The Iron Legion was fractured, whatever coalition this Lord-Warden put together likely held together by lies and deceit, just as she claimed to be better than him! And she was the one that damned Valkenheim to starve like beggars in the first place!

_So have you,_ a part of him chided, one that sounded far too much like what had passed for Apollyon's voice in his dream. He had never heard her speak, nor even met her, but he knew what monsters sounded like.

_But I raid for my people,_ he told himself, _for their greater glory. We take from the weaklings what they don't need. It keeps us alive in this harsh land._

" _Idiot child! Might as well ask me to pick up - FARMING! We're Vikings!"_

He remembered those words. Another warrior he had slain… no, not a warrior. Ragnar was the worst kind of Raider, one who had the spark but used it to feast on his own people's misery rather than find an enemy of the Warborn to ravage. Ragnar was a thief, he had just used force over stealth.

So what separated what he wanted from Ragnar if they both ravaged the meek?

_I attack our enemies. I attack the people who feasted as we starved,_ he reminded himself. _They came to us cowering for peace, they turned Stigandr's love of his people against him_

Yes, yes. That was it. The cowards never intended for the Warborn to accept a peace, only to tear themselves apart while they rebuilt to make their dark pact. They would finish the crimes they started against the Norse people of Valkenheim and beyond. Apollyon was their perfect scapegoat, to blame it all on her and let Stigandr be talked into saying they had all been the dark knight's pawns.

And yet, for all that, they were not the one that struck Stigandr down. "I did that," he muttered as the image of the dying friend returned again. "I killed him… to save him."

Saying it aloud made him pause, he could hear the contradiction. This was not giving a dying friend a sword so the gods would know a warrior's death, this was giving him that death in the first place. Yet that gave him a chance - a chance to make sure that Stigandr's legacy was true. That he fought for his people even to the end, and died for them. Now, it was up to him to make it count.

Soon he would busy himself with the ongoing war, to win it against a likely alliance of foes. But what great victories were won without challenge, a challenge he eagerly awaited?

* * *

 

Day came, and with it the Jarls assembled again, this time to deliver Stigandr's remains to eternity.

It began in Sverngard's temple, where the mourners assembled. Helvar and Runa both agreed to help bear the body, as while Snorri would have many felt it was inappropriate given the holmgang. He would do his part later, but for now he would offer his prayers under the guidance of the priests as they began the ceremonies.

As the Warlord's corpse was carried through Sverngard, all had stopped their daily work. Even the slaves had been given leave to pay their homage, lowly as they were. The streets were lined in silence - tears from many, but restrained by knowing that Stigandr had found his way to Valhalla. All that was left to do was send his body and belongings to join him.

They came upon the shoreline, where the _War Dragon_ had been prepared. A gangplank at a shallow angle, and a blue tent erected towards the back of the longboat. Stignadr's body was brought aboard, rested on a straw bed within that tent. His bed was lined with the shields broken in the duel, a ring around his broken body just as they had broke in his hand.

Besides Stigandr himself, they had placed many other items on the boat. Food and mead, just in case Stigandr wanted a meal away from the other einherjar. Weapons, from humble spears and slings to shields and axes, and even a few Chosen style longbows, all to go with the sword placed with his body. Outside that, they stacked in other riches. A tapestry that Stigandr had particularly liked, wood carvings and other art he had decorated his home with, a chest full of silver and other riches he had won in battle, even a war horse taken from the Iron Legion that was killed and placed in the boat.

Which brought them to the human component. The crowd watched in silence as two of the Jarls dragged the slave girl forward. Yuina fought the whole way, trying to break the grip of the two burly women that had volunteered to bring her there. The Chosen woman kept screaming in her own language as she was forced towards the boat, and then onto her knees. Yet her pleas fell on deaf ears - if anything, the Warborn were more annoyed that she was resisting an honor that good thralls would _volunteer_ for. That said 'good thralls' were exclusively enslaved Warborn that shared their beliefs hardly entered their minds.

Once Yuina's strangled body was placed on the boat, it was time to send it out to sea, and set it aflame. To this end, they placed additional thatch, hay, and poured pitch across it to ensure a good burn. Then it was time for the thralls to give it the push it needed to enter the water, another opening the sail so that the wind would carry it with the outbound current.

They had cleared the harbor in anticipation of this, no ships coming in or out lest they catch fire too. Bows were distributed amongst those attending or brought, from proper warbows to hunting weapons. The arrows provided lacked flint or iron tips, as such would be made pointless wrapped in pitch soaked cloth. At this point, Helvar stepped forward with his own bow, to lead them here. The Berserker inhaled as he closed his eyes for a moment.

"May the gods welcome you, old friend," he began, quietly at first before he forced his voice to grow stronger through the tears. "May they lead you through Odin's great battlefield, to sing your name in love and fury. May the legend you leave behind be heard so loudly that none forget it, living or dead."

"Let this all cry out with pride, so that we can know that you have taken your rightful place at the table of kings!" He inhaled as he strung his bow. "A great man has fallen: a warrior, a Warlord, a Jarl…"

He inhaled as he pulled the bow back, even if he had not fully drawn. "A friend."

With that, he raised the bow and pulled it back to a full draw, holding it for several seconds despite the fact that being inexperienced with them he could not hold it for long. It was that cue that Snorri took, along with the rest of those honoring Stigandr, drawing their own bows as thralls lit the arrow heads for them.

After another moment, Helvar loosed his arrow and the single streak of orange was followed by a hundred more. Some like Snorri's (which undershot) had missed, but the majority found their marks. The _Sea Dragon_ caught fire, an inferno that would blaze for some time before the ship was consumed. But when it was, that ship would bear Stigandr's body - and more - to Valhalla.

"I'm sorry, Stigandr," Snorri whispered, to himself mostly, as he looked down from the sight.

The crowd remained silent for some time, watching the boat make its way out into the sea, slowly becoming little more than a blazing glow as the fog had begun to roll in that morning. At that moment, Snorri knew it was time. Eyes fell upon him, wondering what he would do next.

So he stepped forward, to stand next to Helvar. The Berserker paused a moment between his tears, then nodded and took a step back, still holding his bow. With that, he turned. To Runa and the other assembled Jarls and champions, who lit the ship aflame. To the people of Sverngard and its environs, who had come to pay their homage to a great warrior. And even to the visitors, like one Shaman perched upon a rock or Gestr who watched from a bluff with a hand on his gnarled staff.

He looked to them as they looked to him. Stigandr had passed, and now Snorri had to take his place.

"Stigandr died fighting for the Warborn Clans," the Great Raider began as he stayed in place, turning to look across the crowd as he spoke. "All of us here, today, can only hope that the gods are kind enough to let our deaths have even a fraction of the meaning his did."

"But he is more than just one more fallen warrior, to speak of him only as such is to demean what he was. The Jarl of Wolves, Bran's son, Gudmundr, was the grandfather of Valkenheim. When he came, even in our darkest hour we knew it would be alright. No other Warlord had embodied that in ages, and Stigandr…" Snorri trailed off for a moment as he remembered the confidence it had been spoken in, but he kept going. "Stigandr knew he could never fill such a role, to give us that assurance again."

He left it a moment to sink into the crowd, then he continued. "But not once did he let that stop him. The Warborn needed a leader, a warrior that would protect them. One that had protected them with traditions that run deep as stone. He was no Gudmundr, but his own legend, his own leader. He was the Jarl that the Warborn needed in our darkest hour - the Jarl who started the bonfire that burned away Apollyon's darkness!"

He allowed himself to sag back down. "And that was how he was taken from us. By our enemies, Apollyon's own minions, twisting that to their own designs. He never bent the knee to their wills, and to the end he fought to give his people a better life. And our foes, why would they resort to such?"

He gave the crowd a moment to wonder before he stood to his full height again. "I will tell you why!"

"The world _fears_ us! We are the favored of the gods: we plunder new lands, we raid and we grow strong! We live for battle, ready to die in glory. Even as we are loving family at home, on the battlefield we are ruthless beasts. By unleashing our fury upon those weaklings do we truly keep our families safe!"

"Only in the madness of war, do we truly know our life's worth. Unburdened by the fear of death, we rejoice in battle. We welcome a worthy end that will grant us entry into Valhalla! For all that, our strength and ferocity are unmatched and unstoppable! For them, there is no choice!"

"Our enemies shall submit to the Warborn, or die!"

And as the crowd erupted into cheers and battle cries of avenging the holmgang, Snorri allowed himself to smile. Even with this blow, the Vikings would not deny a truth before them, a truth that Apollyon understood and had to her people's detriment unleashed.

_Warborn,_ Snorri understood as he added a bellowing cry to the cheer. _We. Are. War!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes from the author, now that the story is over. First, I want to thank EXAN for holding her Summer For Honor Fanfic Contest 2018, which this story was written for. I probably never would have written it if not for the contest. And with that, I want to thank everyone that took the time to read this, and especially those that offered feedback on it. I hope you all enjoyed reading the story as much as I did writing it and exploring the mindset behind the Warborn.


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